


we can do better

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: Peter flunked his engineering final.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 109





	we can do better

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.

Peter flunked his engineering final. 

He’d meant to head home right after school on Friday and get some studying in for it, but there’d been these crazy jerks bullying a bunch of middle schoolers and he’d had to step in. He’d felt pretty cool and took some pictures with the kids, hanging upside down and stuff, but then it turned out the guys hassling the kids were, like, serial-bicycle nappers and the kids had begged him to get their bikes back, so. He’d had to find the cache of bikes—easy enough when you ask the guy all webbed up nicely where the stolen bikes are. It might have helped that one of the kids yelled that he’d eat the guy if he didn’t tell him—which was so not true!—but Peter thinks he’s really starting to get this interrogation thing down. Still, returning all the bikes took hours, and there were a bunch more that had obviously been stolen from other places so then he’d had to leave a note for the cops about it before he could finally head home.

Then, in the morning, this old lady had used twitter (Peter might have made a smalltinybarelythere name for himself when he sold some pictures of Spider-Man to the Bugle, but he’d done it for a good cause! He’d needed money to take Mr. Stark out to lunch for his birthday, and he didn’t want Aunt May – or worse, Tony himself – to pay, but now he has like five hundred followers on twitter hoping for more pictures, and it’s _fine_ , it’s not like he panicked at all) to ask him to save her cat. Technically, Mr. Stark had actually told him not to respond to people asking for help on the internet or he’d revoke social network privileges, but, what could helping an old lady with her cat hurt, really? No way was an old lady a secret member of HYDRA, out to get Spider-Man or whatever Mr. Stark is worried about.

It turned out that the cat had hidden and gotten stuck behind some very, very old boxes of raisins like, the expiration date said 1982—he’s pretty sure that’s before Aunt May was even born) inside a cabinet. It should have been easy, except that that cat was not a normal cat. It had, at one point, Peter can almost swear it, three tongues to go with its set of very sharp larger-than-normal-for-a-house-cat fangs, and it had definitely been trying to eat him. The scratch on his left forearm still hasn’t healed. He’s tempted to go ask Mr. Stark about it, but the thought of Mr. Stark laughing (or getting mad) at him for being attacked by an old lady’s cat is too embarrassing just yet.

That night, right when he was done patrolling and was about to head home and have a long study session, he’d run into two guys who were cat-calling and following a girl who was on her way home from a party. Peter had webbed them up and left a note in case the cops showed up, but the girl had been too scared to keep walking home by herself, so he’d ended up going with her all the way to her apartment, which turned out to be in _Brooklyn!_ , and by then it was two in the morning and Aunt May had yelled at him for almost twenty minutes when he’d finally crawled in through his bedroom window.

In hindsight, he should have stayed home to study on Sunday, but Mr. Stark had called and asked him if he had time to go over some schematics for the motorcycle they’d been working on together and he couldn’t just, like, say, “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I can’t hang out with you and do everything I’ve ever wanted because I have to study for this test because I’m still a dumb kid in high school who waits until the last minute to do his homework.”

Then they’d lost track of time, and Peter had ended up staying for a late dinner. Mr. Stark had ordered pizza and turned on the new Star Wars, which wasn’t even out on DVD yet, and Mr. Stark was all smug about it, like he just knew Peter was going to lose his mind—brand new Star Wars! With Mr. Stark!—and had actually _had this planned out when he’d invited Peter over_.

He’d gotten home at around two in the morning again, but at least Aunt May had been working the night shift and couldn’t yell at him about it.

He could have, he supposed, studied then. Had an all-nighter. He’d done it before.

He’d jerked off instead, which, in his defense, had felt like a very pressing need in the moment. He’d just spent the whole day with Mr. Stark, and the last couple hours had felt so much like a date that he’d been on edge the _entire_ time. It wasn’t entirely his fault that he’d just fallen asleep right after either, because he’d been exhausted, and the point is, he never did get around to studying for his engineering final.

It figures that it was the elective class he’d only taken because Mr. Stark had invited him over to work in the lab a few times, and it had just seemed like maybe if Peter knew more about the physical part of what Mr. Stark did, more than just, like, chemistry, Mr. Stark would want him in the lab more, and—

And now, he’d failed the exam, his GPA was ruined, MIT was going to reject his application (even though he’d been edging towards going to NYU anyway, the thought of leaving New York too much to swallow after everything that’s happened in the past few years — he’d say the furthest from home he’s ever been is New Jersey or D.C., but, well, he’s been to space) and Mr. Stark is going to think he’s an idiot, or think he’s not taking his school work seriously, and he’ll never get to go to the compound again, let alone work in the lab.

Peter, despite the fact that he is eighteen goddamn years old, lets his head fall to the cafeteria table with a solid ‘thunk’. Idly, he realizes his forehead may have hit a wayward puddle of ketchup.

Great.

“Come on, Peter,” MJ says from across the table, “one flunked test isn’t going to ruin everything. Even if it is worth half your grade.”

“That’s not helpful,” Ned adds, and then: “But wait, when you said flunked, how bad do you think you actually did—”

“Flunked, Ned. I said flunked because I meant flunked,” Peter says, and he isn’t whining, because he’s an adult. He’s eighteen. He’s legal in every way except that he can’t drink alcohol. He can drive (even if he prefers to swing), he can smoke (but he doesn’t want lung cancer and it smells terrible, so), he can have sex with other legally adult people, like if Mr. Stark ever wanted to.

He hits his head on the table again.

How is it possible to completely ruin your life in one single morning? School isn’t even out for the day yet.

The bell rings, signaling five minutes to get to chemistry. At least in that class, he isn’t worried about passing the final.

Aunt May asks how it went when he gets home and he shrugs, says, “Alright. Don’t get the grades back until later.”

That night, gets a text message from Mr. Stark.

 **Iron Man:** _How’d the test go? ;)_

Peter can’t think of a reply, so he ignores it.

It takes a week to get the grades back. Peter almost skips class. He doesn’t want to actually see it. When the tests are passed back, he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes it at Ned, one desk over, pleading, “Just tell me. How bad is it?”

“Dude, you aced it.”

Peter blinks his eyes open, snatching the test back. Right there, in fancy script, an **_A+_** along with a _Nice work, Peter!_ and a request that he work on his handwriting.

“Oh, God, I passed,” Peter breathed.

“Yep. You were so worried about getting grounded too. Hey, if Mr. Stark buys you champagne again, can I have some? That stuff from last time was amazing.”

Mr. Stark had bought him champagne last year as an end-of-the-year you-passed-your-classes congratulations sort of thing. It had been in a gift basket with expensive chocolate (Peter suspects it was European because he couldn’t read any of the brand names) and a new Starkphone, which had distracted Peter from the champagne until he’d gotten home later and opened it up with Ned and MJ. Aunt May had come home from her shift at work to find Ned giggling where he’d fallen off the couch and MJ standing on the coffee table, giving a very serious (and long-winded) speech about the evils of consumerism, the merits of Edgar Allen Poe, and the potential amazing…ness of a Wakandan student exchange program. Peter’s not sure how they were all related topics. He seemed to only stay tipsy for a few minutes before the effects wore off, but he’d been happy and laughing with his friends, so he’d felt drunk even if he wasn’t.

Aunt May had not been amused.

Peter seriously doubted Mr. Stark would be buying him anymore champagne, or alcohol at all, after that particular phone call. It had been so embarrassing, he wouldn’t have wanted to go to the compound for a month even if he hadn’t been grounded.

“He won’t,” he sighs, and Ned shrugs.

Peter ends up heading to the compound after school. He has a standing invitation on Friday afternoons to train with whatever Avengers are around, so long as he doesn’t have homework or patrolling to do and he tells Aunt May beforehand where he’s going.

It’s weirdly quiet when he walks in, despite F.R.I.D.A.Y. assuring him, “Mr. Stark and several others are currently in-residence, Peter.”

“Uh, where at?”

“Commander Rhodes is in his office, while Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers are currently in the gym, Peter.”

Peter refuses to feel guilty about the way his heart speeds up a little at that. He drops his backpack after pulling out the test and makes his way down the hall and towards the personal gym that only the Avengers are allowed to use. He sees Captain Rogers first when he walks through the doors, because he’s hitting a bag and every punch is loud in the otherwise quiet but echoing room.

“Peter, hey!” comes Mr. Stark’s voice, and Peter’s eyes flitter over to his where his mentor is stretched out on the floor, torso twisted as he reaches for his toes. Peter could almost think he was warming up, except for the way his skin glistens with sweat, and the black tank top he’s wearing is sticking to his chest. He’s clearly cooling down. He must have just finished.

Peter should probably use his words, at some point.

“Hey, Mr. Stark.” He holds the test up in front of his face like some sort of lifeline. “I passed! Thought I’d come show you.”

“Oh, yeah. I figured you would. Last class, right? You’re practically a high school graduate?”

“Hey, that’s impressive,” Captain Rogers interrupts, and Peter blinks, looking at him.

“Uh, thanks.”

He likes Captain America, but he’s never interacted much with Steve Rogers. He was on the run from the American government for like two years, and then he and Mr. Stark had had a sort of tense few months where they were friends but they were friends that didn’t like spending time with each other? Peter always stuck close to Mr. Stark in any case, something which he thinks Mr. Stark was grateful for. On the few occasions Peter had been invited to hang out with the Avengers for group movie nights but had elected to work with Mr. Stark in the lab instead, he’d always seen a small, pleased smile on Mr. Stark’s face.

Captain Rogers nods and goes back to his punching bag. Okay then. Peter looks back at Mr. Stark, who’s looking at Captain America — specifically, looking at his back, which is, Peter admits, unfairly muscular and rippling as he moves.

Peter feels a lump form in his throat and looks away.

He clears his throat with a cough, and answers Mr. Stark’s question from earlier. “Yeah, uh, almost. Graduation’s in two weeks. You, ah, you got the invitation, right?”

Mr. Stark’s attention snaps back to him.

“Yeah, I got it, kid. Sitting on my desk, I think. I’m not sure if I can go, but my secretary knows to try and fit it in my schedule. Hey, you hungry? I’m starving.”

“Right,” Peter says, slowly. He feels oddly disappointed, even though—well, why would Tony Stark actually want to go to a dumb high school graduation? That's—he probably has way more important things to do with his time.

They go to the kitchen, Mr. Stark puttering around in the refrigerator and the cabinets, looking for something easy and quick. Peter glances at the scratch on his arm. It’s healed a bit, but it’s still there, which is weird.

“Uh, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah?”

Peter explains about the scratch, watching Mr. Stark’s face as his eyebrows draw together in a furrow. He slips in close to Peter, so close their legs brush, and takes Peter’s arm to look at it.

“Looks normal,” he mutters. “It’s been a week though? Definitely not normal for you. Maybe we should stop at medical. Run some tests.”

Peter lets out a sort of strangled, “Mmhmm,” as Tony runs his fingers along the scratch. His leg is really, really warm against Peter’s. He’s so close, Peter can smell the sweat on his skin, mixed with a lingering trace of expensive cologne that must have been from the night before.

Mr. Stark glances at him, then startles and takes a step back. “Pete, you okay?”

Peter nods, frantically, and then—oh, _fuck it_.

He surges forward and kisses Mr. Stark on the mouth.

Oh, _God_.

He jerks backward. His lips are tingling. Mr. Stark’s beard is scratchy and rough, maybe a little overgrown; his mouth is stupid soft. He’s also staring at Peter in complete bewilderment, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“I—” _am so sorry._ No _._ “That was—” _a mistake?_ No. _A moment of insanity?_ Yes, but also no. “I—” _didn’t mean to?_ Yes.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says, quickly, and then, panicked, he adds, “I’m sorry! You’re just, you were close, and you’re all—sweaty, and you were touching me, and I didn’t even think about, it just happened, please don’t kick me out!”

“I’m not going to kick you out,” Mr. Stark says, finally, after Peter manages to stop talking. “I’m just surprised. You, ah, that was—”

He stops, claps his hands together.

“Okay, you know what, let’s order pizza.”

Pizza? Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Peter could do pizza. Anything to get out of the kitchen where he just kissed Mr. Stark. In the kitchen.

Kissed.

Mr. Stark.

Oh, God.

He just kissed Mr. Stark in the kitchen.

_He just kissed Mr. Stark._

He squeezes his eyes shut. He repeats, quiet and miserable, “I’m sorry.” Except he _isn’t_. Except he is.

“Moment of madness?” Mr. Stark offers up. It’s a good excuse. Or, it isn’t, but it’ll work, and Mr. Stark is giving it to him.

“I’m usually.” Peter stops. Swallows. “Better at not. Doing that.”

“Better at not randomly kissing people in kitchens…?” Mr. Stark asks, grinning just a little.

Peter chokes on an already broken-laugh, and Mr. Stark’s half-there grin falls.

“No,” Peter says, and God, why can’t he just take the out? Why does he have to keep talking? “At not kissing you. In—in the lab, or on the couch, or in the Audi, or—” and Mr. Stark’s eyes are getting wider, and he looks like he’s the one in a panic now, but Peter can’t stop talking.

“I just, you’re all, and you.” It’s not fair to blame it on Mr. Stark. “You just. Touched me.”

He breathes out slowly and realizes with a sharp stab of embarrassment that he’s crying, _stupidstupidstupid_ , and repeats in a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no need to be sorry, come on,” Mr. Stark says, voice quiet and soft, and then he’s tugging Peter in against his chest, wrapping an arm around him so gently that Peter could pull away easily if he wanted to. Not that he couldn’t anyway, but he appreciates Mr. Stark’s blatant way of letting him know the option is there.

He doesn’t pull away. He wraps his arms around Mr. Stark’s torso, burying his head against his neck, still damp with sweat. Peter’s fingers close around the material of Mr. Stark’s tank top, holding on. It’d be gross, maybe, on anyone else.

“Gotta admit, kid, this is not a situation I was prepared for.”

Peter almost snorts, but just shakes his head instead. Concentrate on—something, nothing. Not the way Mr. Stark feels hot to the touch, the way he smells like sweat and salt and something Peter’s never been able to identify, just knows as _Mr. Stark_.

"I’m kind of lost, here,” Mr. Stark keeps going. “You, uh, have a crush? Is that what’s going on?”

If something this devastatingly all-encompassing can be called _a crush_ , then sure. Peter doesn’t bother answering, just presses into Mr. Stark’s hold further, as close as he can get. He can actually feel Mr. Stark’s adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. He can feel the shifting of Mr. Stark’s body against his when Peter clings tighter.

“Your Aunt would kill me,” Mr. Stark says, after a long moment, and it’s the tone of it—the way it doesn’t sound like a _no_ , but like contemplation, like he’s actually thinking about it, and that’s so unexpected and—and _pleasepleasedon’tjustbeinhishead_ —that has Peter jerking backward to look into Mr. Stark’s face.

Mr. Stark is almost smiling, a wary quirk of his mouth that speaks to exactly how uncertain he is.

“You mean—” Peter starts. His thoughts are scattering in a million directions. He can hardly grasp at them long enough to form actual words. “You mean you’d let me kiss you? You’d kiss me _back_? I—I’ve been in love with you for years, Mr. Stark, I—”

“Oh, fuck, kid, don’t say that.” Peter stops, his heart stopping in his chest, a _sharpstutterstop_ , because Mr. Stark has closed his eyes, looking pained. “We, uh, we’re not there yet. Those words don’t get to come out to play until at least the hundredth date, alright, and you have to be old enough to goddamn drink beforehand unless you want me to have a heart attack.”

A beat. Two.

Peter’s voice breaks as he repeats, “Date?”

He can’t quite tell if his heart has started beating again or not.

Mr. Stark opens his eyes. He steps back. “Sorry,” he says, eyes flittering around the kitchen. “That’s what I thought you were going for, there. Obviously not. I’m an idiot, kid, you should know me well enough to have figured that out by now.”

Mr. Stark turns, like he’s about to leave the room. Something sticks in Peter’s throat again. He can barely even breathe past it, like he can’t move the oxygen left in his body. He nearly lets out a sob, just standing there.

“Please,” he says. Then, when Mr. Stark pauses mid-step, “Yes. I—yes. Dating is—yes, I would like to date. Please. If you—if you want to. Oh, God, please tell me you want to too. If you don’t want to at this point, that’s actually—just, really mean.”

Peter wants to hit his head on the counter. Why did he keep going? He could have just stopped at _I would like to date_.

But Mr. Stark fumbles, looks back at him again. Rolls his eyes and quirks a smile. “Yes, Peter. I’d be willing to date you. If you want to.”

Peter nods.

“Alright then.”

Peter nods again.

“You ready to try that kiss again? I think we can do better.”

He goes to nod again, because he’s just a broken marionette at this point. Mr. Stark chuckles, stepping into his space. His fingers graze against Peter’s cheek. “I need you to say yes, Pete,” he murmurs, far too close for Peter to actually be able to think straight at all.

He swallows, says, “Please,” and that’s apparently good enough.

And it turns out that when Mr. Stark is expecting it, they definitely _can_ do better.


End file.
